


Forgotten

by kanyescooch



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst and Feels, Fluff and Angst, Karl Jacobs Needs a Hug, Memory Loss, Other, POV Second Person, Time Travelling Karl Jacobs, Web Series: Tales from the SMP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:02:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29651034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kanyescooch/pseuds/kanyescooch
Summary: Perhaps the most powerful love is that of the forgotten.
Relationships: Karl Jacobs & You
Kudos: 10





	Forgotten

He was everything.  
  
He was the welcoming melody of the songbird at dawn and the farewell hums of crickets at dusk.

He was the eye of the hurricane. Your Eden in a forbidding hell. The safe haven you went back to day after day, night after night.

He was always there. And you always had him. Yes, he had his mysteries and secrets that you yearned to uncover so badly. You wanted _all_ of him. Every single part of him he had to offer. But he wouldn’t let you. He wouldn’t let you see all of him - that’s what his diaries were for.

  
And for the time being, that was okay. Uncertainty was masked and utterly blinded by the constant need for more. Reality was an unspoken reminder of disaster, and you knew it. You were too far gone to care about reality.

His diaries were reserved for him and only him: desperately hiding his secrets and forbidden thoughts, though silently eager to spread his truths to wanting ears.

  
How could he have known you wanted to know? That you desired so deeply to unravel in his mind and reminisce in his madness?

  
You read some of one diary, once. You got to briskly touch the pages and melt into the words and imagine his hand scribbling his emotions and pouring himself into his only lifeline.

  
But only once. He was protective of his books - painfully protective. Nobody could read them. Nobody could know what was in them. You often question why he allowed you to read the few pages he uncovered. He seemed almost ashamed at his dependency among the pages.

  
The diaries were his only constant. He had everything in them. _Everything_. You wished so badly that it was you. You who could hold him down and keep him sane and be his something - his lifeline, his anchor in a storm.

  
Sometimes, you even wished the diaries would disappear. And all that was left was you and him. His heart and your heart and his soul seeping into yours, singing hymns of vulnerability and trust.

  
Every waking moment with him was your mind begging _tell me, tell me, tell me_.

But you were senseless to think that. Downright naive. Fucking ignorant. The diaries were the only pillars of his sanity. You knew this. You _know_ this. Nothing could replace them.

  
You both knew what was happening outside of the incandescent bubble you’ve created. You both knew, and both chose to ignore it, instead basking in each other's presence and falling into each other’s days and floating into each other’s dreams.

——  
  
All you can do now is watch. That’s all you could ever do. All you continue to do. And you hate it. You hate it so deeply that you wish you had never met him. Never chatted with him on benches swinging below towering willows. Never laughed with him when he made a stupid joke and tousled his chesnut hair in a moment of confidence. Never watched his face go perfectly crimson when catching his stare from afar. You want to take it all back. You want to disappear. You want to forget.

  
_Forget_.

  
That’s all it has been all along, hasn’t it? Forgetting. Forgetting friendships and memories. Forgetting home. Forgetting love.

  
Out of all of life’s tragedies and misconceptions, nothing is worse than being forgotten.

  
Being forgotten is like being in a dream. Everything is perfect. Everything is harmonious and magical and surprising and fresh. Everything is right in dreamland - a world caged away from the evils of reality and its uncertainty. You wish to exist in dreamland forever. Except, you wake up. You always wake up. And that formidable feeling of betrayal settles in your chest and all you can do is wait until nightly drowsiness sweeps you away again. And then the fairylands and accomplices of your mind whisk into the morning wind - and you forget.

  
It is difficult to decipher whether you forget dreamland, or dreamland forgets you. Either way, it hits you all the same, day after day, loss after loss.

  
He always reminded you he couldn’t stay for long, that his visit was brief and his time was precious.

  
And you ignored it. Everytime. He warned you, and you fucking ignored it. Because all you could think about was him from the moment you met to the moment he left.

  
His smile is home, his laugh is home, his words are home, his voice his home. He brings you home. He _is_ home.

  
Or he _was_ home.

  
You love him. You could love him forever if the world would allow it. You would do anything to see him again. To touch him and hold him and whisper endless sorries. You would do anything to feel his heartbeat under your fingertips again, to lay with him under the painted skies and bask in his presence one last time.

Because you didn’t know the last time was truly the last.

You want to listen to him speak again. You want to hear his fondest memories and darkest mistakes.

  
You just want _him_. And the gnawing feeling of being without him eats you alive everyday you are apart. The horrific reality of separation settles in the fine lines of today - of now. You often forget that this is a new life. A life that deserves to be happy and carefree and young. You want to live so badly.

But how can you live anew when your lifeline was already taken from you? Taken like a helpless animal in an inescapable cage. Swept away like a fragile boat among treacherous seas. Forgotten like dreamland, taken with no goodbye.

 _He warned you, he warned you, he warned you_.

Does he remember you like you remember him? Does he remember the sunrise greetings and sunset goodbyes? Was he hit with the instant infatuation that consumed you whole and left no room to breathe? Was he suffocated with feelings that he thought were unrequited and alone and void? Did he care like you cared? Loved like you loved? 

Being forgotten eliminates the possibility of forever. And forever is all you want. Your safe haven is gone. And all there is left is desolation and emptiness and fucking _nothing_.

——

The only peace you encounter now is sleep - the long awaited moment in time where you are lulled into dreamland. A place of old lovers and new happenings, of golden memories and myriads of color, of _him_. Him and his stupid smile and addictive laughter and matchless charisma.

And as you drift from unwanted reality to the warm and welcoming arms of your expectant fantasy, you smile, and think of everything that is to come in these solemn hours of night.

Only this time, you do not awake in your dreamland.

You are blinded with white quartz walls and looming pillars that seem to reach the sky. You cannot decipher this setting - all you can see is brightness, and all you can feel is the sun hitting your skin through the cracks in the towering ceiling above.

This is most certainly not your dreamland, but a palace of hope and warmth and benevolence.

Each detail stands out like separate chapters of the same, whimsical storybook.

You stand up and look around. Not too fast. You want to breathe in every element. You want to walk down the pathways and discover hidden corners and trail your hand along the endless corridor walls.

It’s overwhelming. All of it. It’s a lot to take in at once. But it’s not an uncomfortable newness.

This place is special. Though you’ve never visited this universe or met its mysteries, you feel welcomed here. This place feels like a home: not to just one, but to all. A place for travellers to stop and admire on their treks to new odysseys, a beacon of hope for questioning minds and lost souls. You feel warm here. You feel safe.

Until a shadow casts along the opposite wall from you, too far to catch, but close enough to follow. What is that? _Who_ is that? You helplessly follow. You have to follow.

Brisk footsteps echo off stifling walls and endless hallways. The figure keeps going. A shadow of certainty leaping towards an unbeknown destination. Where are they going? Why are they so desperate to flee from your presence? Where even _are_ you?

Cold sweat breaks loose and precarious thoughts arise.

Footsteps echo and corridors pass.

Time disappears and shadows continue.

You run and run and run until shadows turn into voices screaming _catch me, find me, run to me._

Footsteps echo. Footsteps slow. And then silence envelopes reality.

You look up, and heavenly structures bow down to your awed mind. Archways and pillars and windows encompass the surrounding space. And in this space is something so spectacular and special and _dreamlike_ that it almost seems fake.

A sky-scraping birch tree, bigger than the mountains and brighter than the sun, sat amongst the white captivity of this castle - this place of mystery and peace unioned in harmony. It’s indescribably celestial, fascinatingly structured, knowingly treasured by anybody who is gifted its beauty.

The evergreen was captivating, and you couldn’t seem to look away - the only thing bringing you back to your conscious mind is the same shadow you chased just moments before. The same shadow that took your breath and forced you to follow them as if there was nothing more important in the world than to catch them.

That once ambiguous figure now sat just paces ahead of you, swinging thoughtfully on a bench below the mystical birch branches. You immediately think back to memories of you and him, peacefully swaying below dark oaks and treating each other’s presence lightly, carefully preserving the mutual feeling of trust and desperation.

You come back to reality. Stop thinking of him, start thinking of now. Who is this figure before you? And what do they know about this new land? Your feet start walking before your mind raises caution. Curiosity overcomes your senses. Anxiety ceases to break through your silent, temptatious strides. You want to know more. You _need_ to know more .

As you slowly approach this shadowed man, you realize he is hunched over. You proceed silently, agony tearing at your mind and dominating all rational thoughts. The white walls close you in, the ceilings reach the heavens, and you look over this shadowed being to catch a glimpse of something, _anything_ that hints to the mysteries of this newfound fantasy land.

He’s reading a book?

No, he’s writing.

Yes, he’s writing fast. So fast as if he has no time to waste, writing so eagerly as to make sure he captures every thought, every feeling, every detail. Writing and scribbling and erasing and writing again.

He’s writing as if he is afraid to forget.

And just as you think he is about to continue his desperate scrawl, he stops.

The air is thick and uncertain. You can feel the man's hopelessness through the pages in which he covers. You can hear your heart race and mind fog as you strain your eyes to catch a glimpse of the shadow’s journaled thoughts.

Indecipherable words. Looped letters. Helpless scratch.

That is until you reach the bottom of the page, tear stained and broken, devastatingly scripted:

“ _When I try to remember all things that were good from this past life, all things that were golden and honeyed and sweet, it is only you that comes to mind. You and your sunrise greetings and sunset goodbyes. You and the swinging pines, the mystic glances and unforgettable touches. Only you. Always you. If I could remember only one thing from this past tragedy of a life, it would be you. To forget you is to forget myself. To forget love. To forget home. I can’t promise I won’t forget you. It’s hard, you know me. I forget. And you probably hate me for it, I do not blame you. But please, I beg of you and our story, do not forget me. I have gone through too much anguish to be forgotten by you. I cannot promise I will remember our love, our passion, our story. So I ask of you, if you ever find this, please do_ _not forget. For me, for us.”_

Shadows remain and tears fall and numbness settles. 

The air is dull, much duller than it was moments before. 

The walls aren’t as white as you remember. 

The tree is much smaller than you once believed it to be. 

Your eyes trail back down to the figure below you, his hands trembling and his thoughts abruptly cease. 

The pages turn and the book closes. 

Hearts are torn and memories are wilted.

Love is remembered, never forgotten.

In crying, dismal letters reads,

_The Tales of the Forgotten Lovers_

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading whores


End file.
